Okay, so
what I wanted to blather on about today has its roots in screenwriting, but
it’s a lesson that can get applied to short stories and novels as well. Simply
put, it has to do with boring your readers.
Some of you
may have heard of the "rule of three." It's a
good screenwriting rule of thumb that you should never do something more than
three times in a movie because it starts wearing on the audience. By the third time you’re showing me
something, I’ve either got it or I don’t.
And if I don’t, it’s not my fault...
For
example, in the movie Iron Man we see three big examples of Tony Stark’s
playboy lifestyle before something happens to make him change (blowing off the
award ceremony, sleeping with the hot reporter, and partying on his private
jet). He then goes on to design three
versions of the Iron Man armor, which also involves taking three test
flights (one of them very, very short).
While all this is going on, we get three examples of what a great guy Obadiah
Stane is, three of what an evil jerk he is, and the ever-loveable Agent Coulson
asks three times about debriefing Tony and we get three jokes about the
overly-long name of his government division before the payoff most comic geeks
saw coming.
Seriously,
pick up almost any movie you like and you'll be stunned how quick the threes
add up. The Hulk goes on three rampages
in his last movie. In Highlander we see three other immortals
die before the final battle. In Aliens there are three major attacks and
three examples of Burke being a slimebag.
In the movie Severance, the bear trap slams shut three times (and
if you haven’t seen it, I’m not explaining that any further). In Casablanca,
Victor and Ilsa ask for the letters of transit three times. Heck, in The Princess Bride, how many
challenges does the Man in Black have to overcome to claim Buttercup (I’ll give
you a hint—Inigo, Fezzik, Vincini)? And
there are three great swordfights in that film—all involving Inigo.
Now I’m
sure some folks reading this are thinking three’s just an arbitrary number,
right? It could be the rule of two or
the rule of four. That’s very true, and
you can find some examples of both. In Charlotte’s
Web, for example, the children’s classic by E.B. White (he of the awful
style guide), there are four words that get spun into webs and none of us were
screaming “get on with it” when our parents read that book to us.
In a script
I just read, though, there were over a dozen examples of how low the single-dad
main character had sunk. It starts with
him late for work (as a waiter—historically a job of high pay and great
respect) where he had a party dine-and-dash so he has to cover their bill. Then his car breaks down and he has to walk
home in the rain. Then he gets a
collections notice. Then he has to go grocery shopping and doesn’t have enough
money. Then the babysitter demands more
money because he’s late again. Then his
power gets shut off. Then another
party dines-and-dashes on him and he gets fired. Then he gets an eviction notice. Keep in mind, this is only the first twenty
pages of the script or so, and there’s still more examples coming.
At what
point did you get the idea this guy’s at rock-bottom? Halfway through that list? A third?
Check which note you got it on and count backwards. Was it on the third example?
I bet it
was...
Here’s the
thing. Each time we get exposed to information
or events, it changes our understanding of them. And a writer needs to be aware of how the
reader is going to be seeing these facts or events.
The first
time we get exposed to a piece of information—and only the first time—it’s something new. We, as
the audience, didn’t know this or haven’t seen it before. Agent Coulson’s introduced as yet another guy who needs to
schedule a meeting about Tony escaping from Gulimar. We brush him off the same way Pepper does
(well, those folks do who don’t recognize the initials of his agency).
The second
time we see this happen, on the page or on screen, it establishes a
pattern. Now we know the first time
wasn’t an isolated event or a fluke, and it gives us a little more information
about things and characters. Coulson
shows up again and hasn’t forgotten about this meeting and he isn’t going
away. There’s also the unspoken question
of how did some low-end, government flunky get into this extremely high-end
exclusive party.
The third
time confirms that pattern. These
behaviors or incidents are a definite element of the character or story. Coulson shows up to remind Pepper of his
loosely-scheduled appointment and she grabs him to use as a shield against Obadiah.
When I
start going past this point, things start becoming less informative and more...
well, boring. Once the information’s
been established, continuing to repeat it is just noise the reader’s going to
tune out. And eventually—quickly,
really—they’re going to get annoyed that I’m just repeating stuff they already know rather than moving forward, because storytelling is all about forward
motion.
Now, as I
said above, there are always exceptions to the rule of three. One of the easiest ways is when a writer is
very subtle about something and the reader doesn’t realize they’ve gotten that
first exposure. They may be on their
third or fourth before they notice it, so the pattern forms around the fifth or
sixth time—and is all the cooler when they look back and realize the pattern
was there all along. When we finally
notice the Observer on Fringe, we discover he’s been there all along, in
every episode. Another good example is
Jason Hornsby’s Eleven Twenty-Three, where a town is suffering from
brief outbreaks of extreme violence. It happens twice before the characters
realize the outbreaks always occur exactly at the titular time, and then they
suffer through three more of them before the end of the book.
On the
flipside, there are times we only need to see something once or twice to
establish them. This works best for
real-world things that most people can relate to. Neo only gets chewed out once by his boss, at
the beginning of The Matrix, and we all immediately realize what kind of
employee he is. In Dean Koontz’s
underappreciated Fear Nothing, we only need to see one of Christopher’s
parents die to understand his sadness and loneliness.
You can also change the dynamic. Establishing something with the rule of three
doesn’t mean you’re stuck with it. One
of the standards of good storytelling is conflict that forces things to
change. Once we’ve seen three examples
telling us who this character is, it’s a
good time to start working that arc to change them into something else. Yes, that third time asking about the
appointment makes Coulson look like the ultimate paper-pusher, but right after
that point we discover just how calm and collected he really is. This is a guy who doesn't just have a
sidearm, he carries around shaped explosives just in case he needs to open a
locked door.
Look back
over some of your writing and see how many times you give examples of something. Character traits, recurring events,
whatever. Could some of them go away to
tighten your novel or give you more space in that script for something else? Or can you restructure things to hit one of
the exceptions I mentioned above (three exceptions, for those of you keeping score).
Next time,
I wanted to take a step back and explain why you should avoid taking a step
back in your writing.
Until then, go write.
Until then, go write.
